The Ghost of Norway.
Loki watched the last shimmer of the bifrost fade from the Norwegian sky, the cold Atlantic wind whipping his raven hair. He had just finished the most delicate part of the operation: returning the Tesseract to its stone pedestal within the hidden cathedral. He triple-checked every shadow, every dust mote, ensuring no magical resonance remained.
Leaving the artifact on Earth was a masterstroke of calculated risk. It served as a thermal shield for Frigga. From Odin's perspective, only the Queen had the motive and the proximity to breach the Land of the Dead. If the Tesseract had vanished along with Hela, Odin would have connected the dots before his first night's sleep. But with the Stone seemingly "secure" in its holy tomb, Hela's eventual discovery would be a mystery, not a betrayal. By the time the All-Father realized the bird had flown, Frigga's involvement would be a theoretical ghost, buried under years of plausible deniability.
Loki exhaled, a plume of white mist vanishing into the salty air.
Safe for now, Mother, he thought.
He signaled the Interface. A spatial rift tore open, and he stepped through, appearing momentarily in Goria's moonlit courtyard before piloting his sleek scout-ship back toward the Golden Palace. He made sure to fly low, a flashy display of pilot-error that served as a pre-arranged signal for Mave. The message was clear: The package is delivered. The viper is in the nest.
The Grasp of the Grave.
Back in the solitude of his royal chambers, Loki summarized his gains. The Death Grip ability he had siphoned from Hela's aura was a revelation. It wasn't just a physical pull; it was a telekinetic vacuum. He spent hours in his pocket dimension, practicing the "Grab and Dunk" combo. He would yank a training dummy across the void with the Grip, then meet it mid-air with the Noxian Guillotine.
The sheer, visceral satisfaction of the "dunk" made him grin like a madman. I need a better weapon for this, he mused, eyeing the spectral gold of the Guillotine. Something heavy. A Vulcan War Axe, perhaps. Something that screams 'Executioner'.
But the true prize was his growth. The Ymir inheritance had acted like high-octane fuel. His divine body was now dense enough to handle the Eternal Flame three times a day. He estimated that by the first snowfall, his power would reach total crystallization. He was no longer just "hammering" his power; he was refining it into a diamond-hard core that no magic in the Nine Realms could shatter.
The Princess of Logistics.
As early autumn turned the Asgardian leaves to gold, Loki found himself burdened with a rather... embarrassing task. Keeping a Goddess of Death in exile was expensive, and Hela had developed a taste for the finer things.
Loki adopted a series of female personas, shifting his face dozens of times to avoid suspicion, and went on a pan-realm shopping spree. He bought autumn silks, summer linens, and thick winter furs, hitting shops in small batches so no merchant would wonder why a single woman needed an entire wardrobe for a small army.
Then, he found the centerpiece: a newly finished castle in the Pading Highlands belonging to a disgraced noble. It was fully furnished, opulent, and—most importantly—portable. Using his spatial mastery, Loki "cut" the entire foundation from the earth, lifting the castle, its panicked maids, and its confused guard dogs into his pocket dimension.
Sorry about the relocation, ladies, he thought, watching the maids scramble. But you're about to serve the most terrifying woman in the universe. Look at it as a career upgrade.
The Moon of Vormir.
"Little liar!"
The voice echoed across the mirrored lakes of Vormir before Loki even stepped out of the portal.
"You haven't come for so long! Are you dead? Did the old man finally find your spine and snap it?"
Hela was pacing the shoreline, her hands on her hips, her expression a mask of practiced annoyance. But Loki's Interface didn't lie; he could see the faint ripples of genuine relief in her aura. She was starting to care.
Loki, in his seven-year-old "cub" form, stepped into the soft, purple light. "The setting sun looks like molten gold today, Sister. Truly beautiful."
"Ha!" Hela pointed toward the horizon. "Look closer, little runt. The sun and moon are one on this godforsaken rock. Watch the curve."
Loki squinted. "Wait... does the star revolve clockwise, then backtrack? The gravitational tides should be tearing this planet apart."
"If you stayed here, you'd know," Hela sighed, her voice losing its edge. "It's usually gray and snowy. This 'beauty' is rare."
"Then it's a good thing I brought you a house," Loki beamed. He signaled the coordinates. "Pick a spot, Big Sister. Let's make this place a home."
Hela surveyed the desolate landscape, her gaze settling on a jagged mountainside to the east. "There. It has a view of the abyss."
"Perfect."
Loki activated the portal. In a single, reality-bending step, they were on the cliffside. He carved a square pit into the obsidian rock and "dropped" the luxurious castle into the foundation. It didn't fit perfectly—there was a jarring lurch as the stone met stone—but Loki simply stomped on the threshold, using his enhanced strength to force the joint together.
"Done," he panted. "The maids are inside. The livestock is in the stable. Fresh meat and fresh linens, just like the Golden Palace."
The Pact of Eternity.
The following morning was gloomy, just as Hela predicted. Cold winds howled against the castle walls, and small, crystalline snowflakes began to dance in the air.
Inside, by a roaring fireplace, they shared breakfast. Hela had discarded her battle-worn rags for a gown of noble gold and crimson. Her smoky war-paint was gone, replaced by a radiant, peony-red cosmetic that made her look like a Queen of the Dawn rather than a Goddess of the Grave.
"How long are you staying?" she asked, her voice neutral, but her eyes tracking his every move.
"I have to go back soon," Loki said. He saw her nasal flare of dissatisfaction and quickly added, "But I'll come back often. My time is fragmented—Odin has me on the Council now—but I'll find the gaps. I promise."
Hela grunted, then leaned back in her chair. "I've discovered something about this place, Loki. The atmosphere... the proximity to the Soul... it extends our lifespan. The upper limit is unknown. We could live forever here."
Loki shrugged. "That's good news. I'm happy for you."
Hela's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem surprised. Do you already have a way to beat the clock?"
"Many," Loki said, ticking them off on his small fingers. "First, I have the formula from the Tablet of Life. I can find the ingredients. Second, the Reality Stone. I can wish for a frozen state of youth. Third, the Time Stone—though that one is a nightmare to control. And finally..."
He looked at her, his dark eyes sparkling. "When we get all six Stones and the Uru Gauntlet, we snap our fingers and wish for eternal youth and immortality for the whole family. Simple."
"Wow," Hela whispered, resting her chin on her hands. "Such a clever little mind. You always have a plan, don't you? When that day comes, little treasure... I promise you eternal companionship. In the name of Death itself."
"My honor," Loki played along, bowing low. "Do I need to kneel for that?"
"No," Hela smiled, a dangerous, beautiful curve. "Come to my side."
"I think kneeling is safer—"
"Now! Immediately!"
Loki walked up to her, his heart hammering. The Shadow of Death pressed down, cool and fragrant. Then, the second "stamp"—a damp, lingering mark on his left cheek.
Hela pulled back, looking satisfied. Loki stood there, a seven-year-old with a wet face, feeling a strange, perverted sense of disappointment that it wasn't more.
Interface, Loki thought, wiping his cheek as he prepared to jump back to Asgard. We need to talk about my future rewards. Can we get something related to 'The Charioteer'? I think I'm going to be doing a lot of traveling... and a lot of carrying.
If you like it, please give power stones.